


Overboard

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Confessions, First Date, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Romantic Comedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for brucedickfest, prompt: "Dick and Bruce try to go on a date. It doesn't go as planned, but they still have fun together (and possibly sexy times)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overboard

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Overboard  
>  **Pairing:** Bruce/Dick  
>  **Characters:** Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne  
>  **Summary:** Written for the awesome brucedickfest, prompt: "Dick and Bruce try to go on a date. It doesn't go as planned, but they still have fun together (and possibly sexy times)."  
>  **Genre:** Romantic Comedy.  
>  **Warnings:** Brutal length, hot man sex.  
>  **Words:** 10,309 *weeps*  
>  **Universe:** I have one in mind, but I think it works for any where Dick is Nightwing.  
>  **Notes:** I wanted to write something short  & sweet, but then it totally went off the rails and became this EPIC TOME that kept me up at night. Argh. Also I focused more on the "things go wrong" part than the "fun" part, but … I hope you'll like it, anyway. 
> 
> PS.: I seem incapable of writing these two as an established relationship. >.>
> 
> PPS.: The Indian Rope Trick is totes a hoax. But I imagine that in the Batman Universe, it might not be. XD

"Nightwing," Batman suddenly roars over the sound of screeching, breaking metal, "Go out with me!"

"WHAT?!" Dick can barely understand him. He's covered in broken glass, wind whipping at his face while he's clutching the Bat helicopter's control stick as they go down. Behind them, Dr Do-Wrong's human hunting ground lights up the sky while it's being consumed by flames. "I'm sorry, _what_?!"

Batman is bleeding on him. His face looks ashen, and there's a steel rod the size of Dick's arm sticking out of his shoulder. 

"If I survive this –" he manages, before he coughs up more blood.

"Nonononono, don't say that," Dick implores him, putting a hand on Batman's other, non-perforated shoulder, because that's all he can do right now. He needs his other hand to steer the chopper away from that rapidly approaching sharp cliff, and into the large body of water underneath. "We can _do_ this, we'll be fine, you'll be _fine_ , you hear me?!"

He feels the warmth of Bruce's hand on his, and somehow, magically, it makes some of the panic go away; it always does. "I- _gnh_ -know it's not a good time – " Bruce is clearly struggling to get the words out, so this must be important. "But if I survive this … please go out with me." The last thing he manages to do before his heavy eyelids fall shut is to gently pluck Dick's hand off his shoulder. "And _please_ , use both hands to steer."

"Go _where_?" Dick whispers, desperately. He doesn't understand. Why does Bruce even ask that? Dick would go anywhere with him, anytime, always, no matter how remote the location, no matter how dangerous the case, and the man should know that by now.

Because this _has_ to be about a case, right.

He cannot possibly mean that … that other thing.

The thing they never talk about.

The thing that Dick has _conditioned_ himself not to even _think_ about.

No, that's impossible – 

He can't mean – 

Oh boy, oh boy, there comes the cliff.

Dick lets out a startled yelp as Batman abruptly opens his eyes again and rasps, "Answer me!"

"I …"

Aaand now they're upside down. Literally. The chopper's upside down. Then, it makes a horrific _fwiup fwiup fwiup_ sound as it takes a nosedive, and plummets to the ground. Their bodies get smushed together like a pair of rag dolls, and Dick hears Batman groan as the hard steel is hammered deeper into his flesh. But despite the pain, and despite heading south in a spinning, flaming death machine, Batman stays right on topic. He's as pale as a ghost, but he looks determined, like he's ready to face Death. And also a little bit like he's ready to face Death, then send Death to bed without dinner.

"Answer me, _Dick_ ," he repeats, voice booming over the eerie screech of his helicopter coming apart. "Yes, or no?"

Dick still isn't sure what it means. He can't process it, his mind can't go there, this is too much, it's too much at once. He can't right now. So he answers instinctively.

"YEAH OKAY," he yells, split seconds before they hit the water's surface.

And they live. 

They live, and they make it to the shore somehow.

"You're outstanding at landing that thing," Bruce tells him before he passes out in the sand.

***

In the following days, they don't see much of each other. Bruce recovers, and Dick flies solo again, and things are normal and nothing is weird. They don't talk about what has been said, which is … fine. Dick is determined not to think too much of it. People say the weirdest things when they lose crazy amounts of blood; he would know. Bruce probably barely remembers what he said. 

It doesn't keep Dick from riding a high for an entire week, though, and re-playing that moment in his head to the point where he's almost run over by a very slow streetcar despite his killer reflexes.

Until one afternoon, perhaps three weeks later, his phone rings while he's in the checkout line at the supermarket. It's his normal phone, his civilian phone, so it has to be a social call. And it's Bruce. 

Dick can feel his palms get sweaty immediately. Despite that, he answers so fast even Wally West couldn't have seen it, and blares: "Hiya pal, what's happenin'?!"

_What?_

Why did he _say_ that. He doesn't even _talk_ like that.

Dick cringes, and quickly follows it up with, "How's the shoulder?" in an effort to sound less like a complete tool; and because he really wants to know.

"It's fine." Bruce says, stoic as always. Then he adds, pulling the curtains apart a little more, "It's … inconveniencing. I had to cancel water polo with the mayor four times. I'm running out of good excuses."

"If that's your worst problem right now, I'm glad," Dick says extra-casually, "And I hope 'water polo' isn't a euphemism for something, haha…"

Oh god.

Bruce doesn't laugh, which makes sense, since that had been pretty terrible. Blushing hard, Dick wedges the phone between his face and his shoulder while he's shoveling cereal boxes and laundry detergent and window cleaner onto the counter, "Listen, I, uh, I'm shopping right now but – "

"Have you changed your mind?" Bruce asks him abruptly. He sounds tense.

Dick freezes right in the middle of rummaging for his wallet. 

He could be a wiseass now and ask him, _"About what?"_ , only to hear him say it again, but getting cute with Batman never paid off. Bruce knows that Dick knows, and Dick knows it.

His heart starts pounding uncontrollably. 

The thing is … 

Here's the thing. A long time ago, when Dick had still been Robin and counting down the days to turning eighteen, he'd managed to utterly convince himself that Bruce would ask him out on a date on his birthday.

The possibility had seemed so _real_ back then. Dick would have never gone so far as to call himself completely _sane_ , but he was fairly level-headed and not prone to delusions. And he could read people. He'd been so _sure_ that there was something happening between them. Something palpable, something electric. Something that surpassed the trust and affection they always shared. He thought he could see it in the way his mentor would sometimes look at him when he assumed Dick didn't notice. He thought he could hear it in the low, intimate rumble of his voice when he spoke to him. He thought he could feel it in the way Bruce seemed to sometimes hold on to Dick's arm a split second longer than was necessary. The closer the day came, he stronger he believed it, and it elated and thrilled and terrified him.

He'd been so, so sure about it.

Then his birthday rolled around, and he got a sports car (which, in hindsight, had been _super rad_ ), and a dry pat on the shoulder. And it was more than he could have ever asked for, and not at all what he'd wanted.

"Pfft, Grayson," he could still hear his schoolmates, who knew nothing, sneer behind his back, "Only a spoiled rich boy like him can look _this_ miserable sitting in a ride like that."

To this day, Dick had never been sure if there _had_ been something between them, or if he had simply gone a little crazy around that time.

To this day.

"That'll be 23.87," the cashier tells him, while Bruce growls in his ear, "Dick? Are you still there?"

He throws a bunch of bills and a hasty smile in the woman's direction, grabs his groceries, speeds around a corner and leans against a wall. He's as out of breath as if he'd been in a chase.

"No," he croaks. "No. I haven't changed my mind." He can feel his stomach flop around nervously when he shoots back, "Have you?"

He hears Bruce exhale deeply on the other end, followed by silence, followed by: "No."

Dick spots his reflection in a window across the alley, and sees himself grinning like a maniac. His grin is equal parts ecstatic and mortified. There's a million questions he'd like to ask, but he can't seem to move his lips.

_  
"Have you always wanted this?"_

_"Did you ask because you thought you'd die and wouldn't have to go through with it?"_

_"Hey, all those times where I've slept over at your place, or we've been bunking in the same hotel room together, would it have KILLED you to – "  
_

"I don't know what to say," he eventually squeezes out meekly.

"Don't say anything," Bruce suggests, still formal, but with a little bit of warmth seeping in. "Leave it to me, and await my instructions. I have to go."

"Your what?! Wait, this _is_ \- "

Bruce has hung up on him.

"- a date, right?!" Dick says to dead air.

When he arrives home with his groceries, he finds a black, lacquered box with a white satin bow sitting on his bed. Not his floor, or his kitchen table, or his desk; his bed. It contains a small, elegant phial filled with a rich, dark liquid; you could almost mistake it for a perfume or after shave. But that's not the type of gift you receive from Batman.

Dick knows what it is. It's the poison of the Umbdhlebi tree, the kind that the hunters of Zululand use; it's the world's most exquisite non-lethal sedative, and it's notoriously hard to get. Dick has been wanting to try it out on his wrist darts forever.

The box isn't signed, but it's safe to assume that only Bruce would think of sending someone knockout drops as a pre-date gift. It comes with a note:

__  
Saturday night. Sundown. On the roof of Wayne Tower.  
Be there.  


Dick can't resist. He throws himself onto the bed and dials his number, legs up in the air like he's a flirty teen. If his phone had had one, he'd started twirling the cable around his finger, too.

"Hey," he purrs, momentarily emboldened by the note and the present.

"Yes. I don't have much time."

"Quick question." Dick toys with the phial while he rolls around on his sheets. "What if I had accidentally rubbed this on myself?"

Bruce is quiet for a moment, and Dick wonders if he's picturing him rubbing stuff on himself now. The thought makes him blush.

When he speaks again, his voice is stern. "Dick, if you were the type of person to do that, you wouldn't have lasted in your line of work for this long." He pauses. "And I wager you would've woken up in approximately seven hours. No harm done."

"That's sweet." 

Grinning, Dick holds the note up against the light, admiring Bruce's neat handwriting. "Oh, and something else – if I'd said no, would you have snuck in again to steal the box back before I came home?"

"No. I would've let you keep it. I have no use for it." He still sounds gruff, but he seems relaxed, somehow. He's usually never this patient answering inane, cheeky questions.

"Really? What about the note – I'm free on Saturday, by the way, thanks for asking."

"If you'd said no, you would have never read the note," Batman explains dryly, "There's a chip on it that allows me to destroy it with the push of a button. Observe."

Dick chuckles with amusement, but then tosses the note away with a startled "GAH!" when it starts to crackle in his hand.

"See? I hope you've memorized the information," Bruce sounds strange, almost like he's having a good time or something. His voice is unexpectedly soft and mellow when he says: "Good night, Dick."

"Good … g'night," Dick mumbles back, watching the note crumble into dust before his eyes.

***

That night, and pretty much every night leading up to Saturday, he spends restlessly squirming in his sheets. There's way too many thoughts, ideas, images and possibilities exploding in his skull, and he's having a hard time falling asleep. In the most literal sense. He has to use his hand to get rid of a twitchy, nervous erection more times than he cares to admit. Consequently, he wakes up Saturday morning feeling drained and mushy, and not at all prepared. 

Terrific. He's sure going to enthrall Bruce tonight with the bags under his eyes and his three-night-bender complexion. 

It doesn't help that he receives a short, sweet text message from Alfred over breakfast, which reads: "Do not panic. But be prepared." And Damian, that _douchebag_ , sends him one that simply says, "Be afraid." Of course, in the case of Damian, that could easily be about something unrelated, but Dick is fairly sure it isn't.

His friends are of no help, either. "You know what they say, Dick," Barbara Gordon teases him over the phone, "Bruce Wayne always seals the deal on the first da – "

"Gotta go, Babs, driving into a tunnel, can't hear you," he mumbles, tearing at his collar because he's feeling really hot all of a sudden.

As the sun sets over the streets of Gotham, he makes his way to Wayne Tower with shaky knees.

And once he's there, things get weird _immediately_.

"Oh," Dick breathes, awkwardly adjusting his gloves. "Oh. _Um_." 

He's dressed as Nightwing, skin-tight suit hugging every part of him, all geared-up and ready to go.

Across from him, Bruce is dressed as Bruce, in an exquisite black smoking, looking gorgeous with his dark hair slicked back and his pronounced eyebrows impeccably groomed, holding a bouquet of red roses that are intimidating in number and size.

At first, neither of them says a word. Then, Bruce remarks: "I can see how my message might have been misleading."

Dick, Nightwing, tears his eyes away from him to look down at his boots, disgruntled. "Yeah..." 

He's so embarrassed. If this was anyone else, he'd laugh it off, come back with a charming retort, and it'd be fine. But now that it's with _him_ , suddenly he's got no game. _Dammit_.

Bruce had asked him out while they were wearing the suits, so somehow he'd just assumed they'd go as Batman and Nightwing, soaring through the air together all romantic-like, mask and cowl serving as a mutual sign of familiarity rather than disguise, sharing a sandwich and a clandestine kiss on top of the Museum or something … Dick knew how secretive Bruce was, so he'd figured that'd be the kind of date he would've liked …

But he's brought _flowers_. He's wearing his _actual face_. This is so … _official_. So much more than Dick would have expected. It's overwhelming.

"You look … great," he manages. It's an understatement. He looks delicious, and Dick wants to lick him from head to toe.

Bruce takes a step towards him, and the cool evening air seems to sizzle. "So do you." He sounds very earnest about it. 

It's only three simple words, but it suddenly occurs to Dick that the older man has _never_ before addressed his looks in any way, except for when he was much, much younger and it was 'comb your hair'.

It tickles him.

"Eh," he says humbly (he knows he's sexy, but this is not one of his sexy days and he knows that, too), and smiles. Bruce doesn't smile back. He still has that formal look on his face when he holds the bouquet of roses out to him.

"These are for you," he says in his gruff voice. 

And for a second, it becomes a magical, perfect moment as he hands Dick the flowers and Dick accepts them.

His movements are a little stiffer than usual. To an untrained eye, it would seem like nothing, but Dick knows right away that the shoulder must still be giving him trouble, causing some of the stiffness. Some of it; not all.

The bouquet is so big, Dick's face nearly disappears in the flowers as he holds them to his chest. "These … these are lovely," he tells Bruce from somewhere behind them. Well, at least they smell amazing.

"Thank you," Bruce retorts, and Dick wants to kick himself for _not thanking him_ when he received them, "I've hand-picked each one. They're a rare 800-year old blend that's famous for its scent and longevity. In fact, there's only a single deaf-mute old Padre in a monastery in Sicily who knows how to grow them, so I flew –" Bruce pauses, and Dick sees him frown at himself through the flowers, " _And_ now I sound like I'm showing off. Not what I intended."

Dick grins. Bruce seems off his game, too, and that's weirdly comforting. "Love them," he assures him. "Thank you."

"Good!" Bruce barks, as if he's checking it off an invisible list. "Then we can deal with _this_ next." He gestures at Dick. It takes him a moment to realize that Bruce means his Nightwing getup.

"Makes sense," he admits sheepishly. "I mean, we can have Batman dating Nightwing, or Bruce Wayne dating Dick Grayson, but Bruce Wayne going out with Nightwing would be kinda weird, right."

He breathes out. He's called it a _date_ now, like several times, and Bruce hasn't given any sign of discomfort. To be fair, he doesn't seem that comfortable, either. The statuesque billionaire still looks kinda reserved, really. "I have something aboard the plane that might suit you, if you're willing to try it on," he offers.

"Oh, I'm willing!" Dick declares. Anything to get this show on the road – 

Then he realizes what he's just said, and then they look at each other silently for a long stretch of time. Nobody moves.

Until Dick has the mind to ask, "Wait. What plane?"

"This one," Bruce says, and a second later his smoking jacket starts to flap in the breeze as a black, sleek, small private plane lands on the hub behind them, seemingly out of nowhere. Dick only stops gaping at it when he catches Bruce observing him with a spark in his icy blue eyes, apparently drinking in his baffled expression.

He points at it. "Who flies that thing?!"

"Me." Bruce flashes him a device in his palm that looks way too tiny to be controlling a plane like that. "It's only you and me. Come, it's time."

The plane is very classy and cozy on the inside. Intimate. It's awesome, but Dick can't stop thinking about how many people Bruce might have bedded in this thing. He uses another plane for his business trips, so this might as well be a pants-removing device with wings. Dick isn't sure if he finds it stimulating or intimidating, which in turn makes the tingling sensation in his codpiece really confusing. Luckily, Bruce now hands him a less revealing outfit. It's an expertly pressed, pristine smoking that might only be a little too roomy for Dick's more slender figure.

He takes it, making sure his gloved hands are brushing across Bruce's fingers, and purrs, "You really want me out of this suit, don't you." It's supposed to sound bold and sexy, but he bumbles it; his voice shakes almost pathetically when he says it.

"I do."

The pitch of Bruce's voice sends little shock waves through Dick's body. His lips part, and he can see Bruce's pupils dilate as he watches it with wide-eyed attention. He wonders if the older man notices the heat rising from his body, too. They're so close that they're almost breathing on each other.

"… because the place I'm taking you to has a black tie policy." Bruce sounds hoarse.

Oh ok.

Dick snaps out of it. "Right. Got it."

"Try it on. I'll leave you to it." 

Bruce smiles, for the first time tonight, but looking at it makes Dick's heart sink. It looks handsome, but it's a mechanical smile, more designed to make Dick feel comfortable than it's genuine. He becomes aware again how controlled every muscle on Bruce's face is, and how little he cares for his own playboy persona. And how little he, Dick, cares for it, too. He doesn't want that. He wants _him._ The real him.

Bruce is almost on his way to the cockpit when Dick calls out, "Wait!"

His former mentor turns around. His expression is hard to read. "Yes?"

Dick stares at him. He's had an idea, and he doesn't know if it's creepy, or completely awesome, but he can't shake it now, it's right there on his lips.

_Stay; stay and watch me undress. I don't mind you seeing me naked. I WANT you to see me naked. I've been wanting you to for a long time._

The words are there, but something blocks them from coming out, and now sweat is forming on his brow, and he realizes that he makes Bruce linger awkwardly in the doorway while he watches Dick give him a glassy stare. 

Bruce waits. One beat. Two beats. Then, he breaks out that distant smile again, and walks out.

Dick has some time to recover while he steps out of his suit and puts on the smoking. The fabric is soothing against his hot skin, smooth and cool and exquisite. It's fitting enough to not make him look like a fifteen year old playing dress-up, though only barely. He makes himself breathe in and out, calmly, trying to appease his hammering pulse. Ok so it hasn't started out ideal, but the night is only beginning, and it's _them_ , the dynamic duo, they do _everything_ well togeth – 

"Can I help you with that?"

Startled, he turns around. Bruce has returned. When Dick doesn't reply, he becomes flustered, and points at the younger man's Adam's apple. "Your …"

Oh, right. Bowtie.

That kinda hurts Dick's pride. He wouldn't want Bruce to think he's still that little boy who'd fumble with that thing for hours. "Oh c'mon, you've shown me that a million times! I can do it by my – "

For some reason, a look of disappointment crosses Bruce's face.

Oh. _Oh!_

Dick makes a quick course correction. "-self, but not as well as you, _obviously_ , so go ahead!"

He stands still and presents Bruce his throat, tumultuous heartbeat beneath a prim white shirt as his former mentor steps in close and touches him. His hands ghost against Dick's skin while they work on the dark satin, and his fingers are warm, and much gentler than the task requires. Bruce leans in close, until their faces are almost touching. Dick thinks he can hear a soft, appraising hum come from his lips, at some point, but he isn't sure.

"Dashing," Bruce mutters distractedly, and Dick's heart takes a long leap off a tall building. "You look dashing. Hold still. I'll make it a Moroccan slingknot. It takes a while, but it's the finest …"

Dick kisses him.

He doesn't even have to move; he only has to tilt his head and get on his toes to close the distance between their lips. He makes it soft, feather-light, almost inquiring, with only the slightest bit of push to it. He's always liked the way Bruce smelled, the way he felt, and now he has confirmation that he tastes good, too; Dick's eyelids flutter shut right away. Bruce freezes, and then Dick can hear him exhale almost violently as his whole, massive body shudders against him. 

"Relax, partner," Dick whispers. In the end, that's _all_ he really wants. "You don't have to make excuses to touch me…"

And then, he gets mauled.

Bruce swoons – no, _dives_ into the kiss, grabs Dick by his hips and pulls him close, holds him desperately like this was their last kiss, not the first. He's is a fantastic kisser, no surprises there, he has the moves, but there's this note of real, barely contained _need_ in it that makes it … something else, and now Dick can hear him _sighing_. 

For a moment, nothing else is really important. Dick slings his arms around him because his knees give out, and Bruce holds him with great ease, never even taking his tongue out of his mouth. Dick lets out a husky, breathless laugh as Bruce's hands find their way to his ass and start squeezing down, because that's what they _all_ do, when it comes to him they all go _straight_ for the ass, and he doesn't really mind it. There's something pure, savage, almost innocent in the way their bodies are rubbing up against each other, because it simply _happens_ , it happens all by itself. And now Bruce presses him into one of the couches, and it's almost shameful how fast Dick's legs are opening for him. Bruce descends on him, and before he starts sucking on the warm flesh of Dick's neck he moans his name, sounding all shivery and _wantful_ and whatnot and Dick rocks against him and almost _wails_ and then Bruce says, in a deep, sensual voice – 

"… _nnh_ do this … we can't do this."

Dick howls. 

He squirms underneath him. His face is burning hot, his lips are tingling and his hardening cock does something really painful in his dress pants. 

"WHY NOT?!" He gasps, then he finds his indoor voice and repeats, "I mean, why not?" 

Above him, Bruce looks unusually red-faced, and actively tortured. "I …" He licks his lips. "I have this night mapped out on a tight schedule. We have a reservation at Le Chalet Suisse. I had to arrest six high-ranking members of the Gotham mafia to clear up a table…"

Dick lets out a soft whimper. The Chalet is one of Gotham's top addresses, but if it was for him, they could keep doing _this_ for the next six hours, and then later Bruce could buy him a Snickers or something, he doesn't care. Their bodies have never touched before, not like this, and … and …

"Please." Bruce squeezes his hand. His gaze is intense. And. Warm. "I want to do this right."

He's so solemnly sincere that Dick complies. They disengage and end up slumped against each other, suits in a mess, breathing heavily. Wincing, Dick pulls on his pants until he finds a less agonizing fit. Next to him, Bruce has closed his eyes and lets out an almost meditative hum, presumably for a similar reason. Dick doesn't dare to look.

Once he deems it appropriate to stand again, Bruce straightens his suit, turns to Dick, and presses something long and hard into his hand. "Here. Take this." 

Dick doesn't know what it is, because he doesn't look, because keeps staring at Bruce like he's mesmerized. But it feels very phallic. Though that might just be the mood he's in.

"It's the remote for the sound system." Bruce explains. "There's over a billion titles in the music library. I want you to pick something you like. Then come to the cockpit and buckle up. I want to show you something."

***

"…"

"Again, I'm sorry about the music – "

"It's not your fault," Bruce says between his teeth. "I shouldn't have imported the cave's entire music archive. I completely forgot about Stephanie's hip-hop dance phase."

They're soaring across the dark Gotham sky after all, above the rooftops, underneath the stars, and the view is lovely. The atmosphere in the cockpit is a little stuffy, though. As it turns out, hitting "shuffle" on the remote in his eagerness to sit with Bruce had not been Dick's best move. Considering what had just happened, it had been the slightest bit mortifying when "Push It" came on, followed almost seamlessly by "Me So Horny". Though neither had been as weird as hell as hearing a recording of Damian reciting a full poem, ending with "Happy Father's Day! Too bad you're going to Syria. I await your return. Pennyworth, I'm done, take this away from me."

"Hrm," Bruce had muttered. "Missed that somehow. Now I understand why he was so mad at me that day."

At that point, Dick had gotten up and hastily switched on something named "Alfred's Summer Jams", which seemed relatively safe. Now they're listening to Cole Porter's "Fly Me To The Moon". It's better, though still awkwardly romantic.

Meanwhile, Bruce is being the opposite of romantic.

"The steering is extremely sensitive, but fully adjustable," he lectures, swerving around Wonder Tower, "It supports even the swiftest maneuvers. There's a camouflage mode and a stratospheric rocket mode, as well. Now, I cannot demonstrate that right now, but you'll experience it, it's remarkable. If you take a look at the control panel – "

"Bruce," Dick interrupts him. 

He realizes he hasn't said his name once until now. And Bruce hasn't used his, either, except for that one time when he's moaned it really hornily. The memory alone makes him shiver.

"Yes?" Bruce's lips grow thin; he doesn't like being cut off, even though he does it to people all the time.

Dick gazes out the window. Gotham looks beautiful from here, and he wants to shut off his brain and give himself over to this moment, but he can't figure out what all this airplane talk is about. It seems … it seems like there should be more important topics now.

"When did you … when did you know you wanted … us …" He sees his own pale, nervous face reflected in the window, and looks down to tug on his sleeve. "I mean, you could've … "

He's such a smooth talker, normally. But now, it's like his words are clumsily stumbling out of his mouth, only to trip over themselves. Next to him, Bruce is looking straight ahead. Which is probably good, because otherwise they could end up in a horrific accident.

"Do you like your plane?" He suddenly asks, terminating Dick's wavering attempts to vocalize his feelings.

He's almost grateful for the diversion. " _My_ plane?"

Bruce takes this as a cue to send it into a perfect swan dive that makes Dick's pulse skip pleasurably, then pull up at the last minute. "It's yours. I'm giving it to you, if you want it."

Dick's mouth falls open, and Bruce gives him that look again, as if he doesn't want to miss a single note of awe and surprise on his former partner's face. He always seems to be loosening up a little when that happens.

"I've made some custom upgrades to it that should suit you. It's slim, light, very fast and very nimble, like – " Bruce hesitates. "I named it after you, too," he says instead.

Dick arches a brow. "You named it _Dick_?"

Bruce gives him a look so consternated it'd almost be hilarious if it wasn't so hot. "I named it _The Flying Grayson_ ," he grumbles.

"Ooh," Dick says softly. "Yeah, I agree, that's a _much_ better name."

It's also sweetly sentimental. And really touching. And probably very very expensive. He doesn't quite know how to react, and he keeps feeling worse and worse about the fact that he didn't even bring Bruce a measly buttonhole flower or something. Again, though, he hadn't been prepared for all … this.

And suddenly, he realizes why Bruce has had no time to let his shoulder heal properly. He'd busted half a dozen gangsters to get them a table at the Chalet. He'd acquired that African poison. He'd somehow upgraded a _plane_. He'd flown to Sicily to get Dick flowers. He – 

Dick stares at him, almost scandalized. "You spent _the last three weeks_ setting all this up, didn't you."

"No. That'd be frivolous. But a certain amount of time went into it," Bruce somehow looks simultaneously guilty and pleased with himself. "I'll land over there. We'll switch places, and you can fly it. That is, if you like it. But I think you'll like it." He gives him one of those hushed looks again. "Do you like it?"

Dick grabs him by the collar and shoves their faces together. Bruce has mastered the art of fending off surprise attacks, so it's safe to say he doesn't really mind it. 

"I want to make this perfectly clear," Dick tells him, "I'm _not_ doing this because you're giving me presents. I'd do this anyway. You know that, right?"

Bruce's eyes seem to light up at that, but then quickly glaze over as he's zeroing in on Dick's lips.

They come together for another nervous, shaky kiss. It's poorly thought out and poorly executed, but they can't seem to stop making out, until Bruce looks up, hollers "BIRD!", grabs the controls and avoids it by a hair.

***

"Your dessert, Messieurs. Please, enjoy. And may I say," the maitre bows before he scurries off, "Monsieur Wayne, it is always _such_ a pleasure to see you and your lovely boyfriend united!"

Dick waits until the man is out of earshot, then he leans over and whispers, "Okay, did Gustave think we were a couple all this time?"

Bruce stares after their waiter with narrowed eyes. "Apparently."

Dick is horrified. " _All_ this time?! But … but we've been coming here since I was – "

"I know." Bruce looks very alarmed by that, but then he leans over, too, all confidentially, and it's charming as hell. They stick their heads together, accompanied by soft violins and the low chatter of the other patrons around them.

"Actually," Bruce mutters to him, "You'd be surprised to learn _how many people_ seem to think we're together, should be together, or have always been together."

He seems completely fascinated with it, like it's such a phenomenon. Dick isn't sure whether to find that hurtful, or endearing. 

He tilts his head and pretends to contemplate it. "Nah," he cockily replies, "I'm not surprised by that at all."

For emphasis, he lets his foot – which he has freed from his shoe a while ago – travel under the table, and rubs it against the other man's calf. Bruce doesn't even blink, but Dick thinks he can see his pupils become dark and wide again.

They've spent dinner talking about _neutral_ things and getting comfortable – as comfortable as Bruce ever got, anyway – and it's nice, but Dick has decided it can't go on like this.

Bruce shifts a little as the younger man's foot trails up his leg. "Try the dessert," he says, in a husky voice that seems to suggest _Take off your clothes_ , "I ordered it especially for you. It's candied White Alba truffles in Turkish - _hn_ honey," his Adam's apple bounces as he swallows, hard, "… baked into a crust of Belgian waffle, coated in Amedei Porcelana, the world's finest chocolate, sprinkled with 25-carat edible … gold … flakes …"

His voice reaches sub-basement levels of throatiness when Dick reaches the firm warmth of his inner thigh. He rests his foot between Bruce's legs, cradling his toes against him. The effort makes him slink down in his chair; nobody notices. Dick is nimble, and Bruce has a great poker face.

"Mmm," Dick purrs in response to whatever Bruce has just said, "Sounds delicious."

He plops one of the little, sticky treats in his mouth, and proceeds to lick the gold-coated icing off his fingers; it _is_ delicious. He lets out a low moan to communicate his satisfaction.

Bruce doesn't touch the dessert, but seems intent to watch him lick himself, which is all kinds of interesting.

"You're spoiling me," Dick remarks, to which Bruce lets out a noise somewhere between an affirmative huff and a strangled grunt.

He lowers his eyes and watches the chocolate slowly melt in the candlelight. His face is glowing. "You know," he begins. If Bruce isn't going to start this conversation, he'll do it, even if his heart feels like it's racing up his throat. "I." He smiles nervously; at the truffles, not at Bruce. This is hard. "I. I had. The biggest crush. On you. When we were working together."

He looks up when he hears a roar, and it's Bruce clearing his throat. When their eyes meet, Bruce reaches for his glass of water, almost knocking over the candles in the process. He takes a large sip without breaking eye contact, then puts the glass down pretty forcefully.

"How about – " His throat still seems raw; he clears it again. "How about _now_?"

Dick flashes him a teasing smile. He props his chin up on his hand. "How about _you_?" 

The other man takes his time with his answer. And another long sip of water. The wet sheen on his lips is distracting. "I never had a crush on you," he then says gruffly. 

The word "crush" sounds strange coming from him. The rest is kinda devastating. Dick's face feels as hot as if it's melting off his skull. It's unexpectedly humiliating to hear – 

But then, Bruce quietly follows it up with: "That's not what I'd call it." And there's this low, rumbling undercurrent of _want_ in it, like back on the plane when he'd ravaged him. His face is earnest, and open. Almost sad.

Dick sighs shakily for an unreasonable amount of time. Bruce reaches over, still looking very serious, and suddenly their fingers are touching, and somehow that's even _more_ erotic than rubbing a foot on his crotch.

"Since … since when?" Dick hears himself squeak.

Bruce's steely blue eyes seem to soften when he croons, "Always – "

Then, they grow wide with horror when he realizes what he's said. "I mean, not _always_ , not when you were … _no_. That would be – "

Dick swiftly closes his hand around his when he tries to pull it away. "I _know_ what you mean."

It's rare to see the Caped Crusader this mortified. "Well _good_ , because I don't want you to think --"

"I don't. I get it. It's fine."

This seems to relax him a little. Under the table, Dick's foot is still nestled against him, and he can feel the heat exuding from his body, but Bruce hasn't gotten hard in the slightest. Perhaps he's too tense, but Dick thinks it's more probable he has impeccable control over himself in that department; the many possibilities of that make him shudder.

"Why did you never say anything?" He asks. Behind them, the string quartet is fiddling for another couple, and he wants to thank them on his knees for not coming over, and also for providing this much noise to have this talk in peace.

Bruce is so ready with an answer that it can't possibly be the full answer. "You were always seeing other people," he says matter-of-factly.

Dick frowns. It's very much like Bruce to chuck that ball right back into his court. He's expected some sort of guilt-ridden confession, but this seems … logical, and … accurate. He's never really thought about it, but ever since he's been old enough to date, he's been dating, more or less. Some of the time because he'd felt he couldn't get close to the person he actually wanted.

"I … I did, didn't I."

But it seems too simple, as well. Things are never that simple when it comes to Bruce.

"You were seeing other people too, like, _all the time_ ," he points out, to which Bruce responds with a noncommittal shrug. "It drove me _nuts_!," 

Bruce's eyes light up for a brief moment. "It did?"

Dick chuckles. 

He leans in close again. "You know, once?"

Bruce looks at him attentively. Dick bats his eyes at him, blushing. He probably shouldn't be telling him this stupid story, but it's like a dam is bursting, he wants to tell him _everything_. 

"Okay, this is _really_ lame, okay, but one time, a few years ago, I even went home with a guy from a Halloween party, only because he was wearing the cowl. You know which one – "

He almost bites his tongue when he sees all color – and warmth – drain from Bruce's face. His interested gaze turns into a death ray-type glare. Dick's smile collapses. It's not the kind of look you want to be receiving from Batman. And to make it worse, he looks kinda _wounded_ , too.

Oh boy. Why … why'd he think it was a good idea to tell him _that_?

However, he's more surprised than anything else when Bruce incredulously growls, "You've been with _other men_?"

Dick stares at him. Suddenly, their hand-holding becomes strangely awkward, though neither of them seems to be willing to break it off.

This appears to be the right moment to pull his foot out of his lap. "Um, Bruce," he says cautiously, "Did you … did you think I was a _virgin_?"

Because that'd be ridiculous. _Him_. Really, now.

" _No_ ," Bruce hisses defensively. On closer inspection, he seems more hurt than furious, which is somehow simultaneously reassuring and horribly sad. "I _know_ you're not a v – " He hesitates, contrite, takes a look around and edges closer. "I know you've been with women. But I thought … we'd be …"

He furrows his brow, and says nothing more.

It's a little hot how mad he is.

A little bit.

"Wait..." Dick bites his lip. Something in the way Bruce took the news has made him suspicious. He _can_ read people, after all. Bruce Wayne makes it harder than others, but Dick's had years of practice. He lowers his voice until it's barely audible for anyone who doesn't have Bat ears. They've communicated their way out of many a hostage situation like this. "Wait. Does this mean _you_ have never … with a man … ?"

Bruce's scowl looks epic in the candlelight.

Oh.

Oh m- oh man. Oh dear.

There's silence again, until Bruce morosely asks, "Why are you _smiling_?"

"It's … ah, nothin'." 

He can't. He can't tell Bruce, Batman, that in some demented, intensely tragic way, he thinks it's _adorable_. Maybe he'll tell him later, somewhere along the way, but not now.

Bruce is still frowning hard, but he doesn't pull away when Dick gives his hand a firm squeeze. "All I can say is this," he tells him warmly. "You've come to the right man, old friend." 

He can't stop smiling. Bruce has showered him with presents (and odd, out-of-left-field confessions) all night, and he has no way to match that, at least not materially, but …

But he can give him all of himself. And he's going to.

Impressing Bruce is like catnip to him, like an itch that never really goes away, and the idea of taking him to his bedroom (or any room with a workable surface in it, he's not picky) and lay it all on him, show him his devotion, show him what he can do, show him what they can experience together, it's – 

It makes his voice slide into a deep, husky register. "I mean, the things I could – "

"Not now."

Across him, Bruce looks at Dick as if he's a delicious cake he's not allowed to eat (which is a thing that actually occurs, since he lives on a tough diet). "We're not done." He explains. "I have another surprise for you. Something fun."

It's something Dick has been familiar with ever since he'd been a little boy; nobody can make the words "surprise" and "fun" sound as chore-like and joyless as this guy. It seems especially egregious now, coupled with that pained expression on his face.

"Fun?"

"You like fun."

"I. I do. But," Dick blinks meekly. "You mean … the flowers and the dinner and the plane _weren't_ my surprise? There's _more_?"

"Want me to tell you what it is?" Bruce asks him, and the attempted playfulness doesn't jibe at all with his tense demeanor. It reminds Dick of his first awkward attempts to be casual with him back when he was that lonely orphaned boy in that gigantic manor. He'd never been all that good at it. But he'd try, anyway.

It makes him smile. "Want me to guess?" He teases.

Bruce looks at his watch. "No."

Figures.

"All right, tell me."

"Good." Bruce seems to relax whenever he gets to pull another dating surprise out of his bag of tricks. "We'll get back on the plane, and I'll take you to a private island off the coast, where I've arranged – " 

He makes a pause for dramatic effect. Dick can tell that he's planned to do that, and it clashes so badly with his personality that it makes him chuckle.

"An exclusive performance of a legendary and elusive circus act: the Indian Rope Trick."

"Whoa."

It hits him right in his circus brat heart and makes it all go away for a moment, the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the agonizing sexual tension.

"Whoa." Dick nearly shoots out of his chair. "Bruce. You're not joking, right? Because, seriously, do _not_ joke to me about things like that."

Bruce observes him, looking smug with his a finger pressed against his lips. "I'm not."

"But … but it hasn't been performed in public since 1890! Most people think it's a hoax! Though not me," Dick babbles, like he's that kid with the Evil Knievel poster again, "I always believed it was real. One of the greatest acrobatic feats ever conceived – "

"It's not an acrobatic feat, it's a hypnotic illusion," Bruce corrects him, but the corners of his mouth are twitching. "We've been over this, Dick."

"No, it's _both_! That's the _beauty_ of it, Bruce, you don't _understand_ – "

He trails off when he looks at him and sees him smile.

Like, for real smile this time.

This silly conversation, which harkens back to their early days and the really stupid discussions they'd had about stuff like this, and seeing Dick's enthusiasm was all that it took to make him smile.

"You like it," he says quietly.

"I _like_ it? Are you _kidding_?" Dick wants to slow down to appreciate this sweet moment, but he can't, his excitement is trampling all over it. Bruce is still smiling, watching him get flushed with anticipation. "Can we go _now_? Can we take pictures? Can we film it? Can I meet the performers? Can I – " He pauses. "Can I kiss you in public, because that's what I really wanna do right now."

For a moment, Bruce looks so incredulous that he's sure he's going to say no. Then, he swallows again. "Of course." He says, "You … don't have to ask."

"Ok, great – "

Their first public kiss. Dick draws a deep breath and nearly clambers onto the table, going all-in with his lips parted and his eyes closed – 

And takes an unexpected dive when Bruce suddenly hisses, "Son of a – " and pushes him aside to rush to the window.

***

"…"

"Bruce, let's go h – "

"No."

"We can still do something el – "

" _No._ "

He's stewing in the cockpit of _The Flying Grayson_ , teeth clenched, and hasn't even looked at Dick for over an hour because he's too busy smiting the approaching storm with a weaponized glare and growling into the communicator.

"We can _do_ this, Dick, I have the weather station on one line and Baba Yogeshwar on the other. You will _not_ miss it, we'll work something out. This is outrageous!" He snaps, and Dick flinches in his co-pilot's seat. "I've been watching the atmospheric developments like a _hawk_. There was no indication of a rainstorm. It's … this is can't _be_."

"Bruce," Dick says dryly, balancing a steaming cup of Ovaltine on his knees, "I don't really expect you to be able to control the weather."

"You _should_!" Bruce booms, pointing an angry finger at him. Then he frowns, and blinks.

"I. I sound deranged right now, don't I."

"A little." Dick sips on his hot drink.

"I'm signing off," Bruce grumbles at the communicator, then slumps back into his seat, looking defeated. "You're disappointed." He says flatly.

Dick shrugs. "Sure." It would be rude _not_ to admit that the idea of seeing the Indian Rope trick had given him a nerd boner, and that not being able to take off had been kinda crushing. "But … it's not so bad." His lips curl upwards. "I'm with you."

The smile doesn't even register with Bruce. He looks as distraught as if he'd just let a major criminal get away. "This is a mess," he declares, "Disastrous. I wanted to give you something _good_. _Now_ look at us."

"Yeah. We're sitting in an awesome plane with Alfred's entire jazz collection, overlooking the city's skyline. Could be worse, couldn't it?"

No answer. Dick wants to ask him if he needs something to rest his weary head on, like maybe a willing young acrobat or something, when Bruce starts patting his hand like he's the one who needs comforting.

"You deserve better," he then mutters nonsensically.

"What?! That's absurd, Bruce, it doesn't matter – "

"It _matters_ , Dick!" He hasn't seen him this worked up since the last Arkham mass breakout. "I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to know, _precisely_ , how much you – " He interrupts himself and starts over. "After all we've been through, after all I've _made_ you go through, I knew that if I _ever_ took you out, I'd make sure to give you the best of everything, because you – because – "

He seems to stumble over the next part. 

Dick sits there in silence, and lets that weirdly tender tirade simply wash over him. He isn't sure if he's supposed to like this so much, but he can feel his throat close up and his tear ducts activate simply by listening. Fortunately, he has enough restraint to not start bawling on their first date. He knows Bruce is more terrified of people weeping than he is of getting locked into Blackgate with only a toothbrush on him – 

"Because _you_ are, Dick," Bruce barks at him, " _You_ are the best of everything."

At which point Dick's heart bursts.

"Oh god," he sputters.

"I know!" Bruce is so frustrated he doesn't even pause to note the rapturous look on his face, like he's done all night. "It's beautiful! And I was planning to tell you that when I take you _back_ to Wayne Tower, at the _end_ of the night, while we're stargazing over the city, and now it's all _wrong_ \- "

"You…" Dick squawks in a flimsy voice, "You … realize you could tell me that while we're swimming in a _dumpster_ and it'd still be the greatest thing I've ever heard, you do realize that, right?"

"Why would we be swimming in – "

"You're missing the point."

Around them, rain slowly starts trickling down the windows. The storm is arriving.

"Face it, Dick." Bruce looks at him, at last. "I'm a _terrible_ romantic partner. Of all the things I am, I'm at my _worst_ when it comes to this."

"That's not true - " Dick protests at once, which earns him a dark, pinched smile.

"Look at my track record, Dick, and say that again."

He does. "…oh."

" _Yes_. That's why I never wanted this for you. Except I _want_ it, because I'm _selfish_. And I wanted us to have at least one night where everything is right, before it goes – " 

"Bruce."

"What."

Dick puts aside his cup. "I have a couple things to say to that. But before I do, can I get on your lap?"

It's so unexpected that Bruce stops compulsively guilting himself for at least five seconds. "Yes," he says, completely stone-faced. And then, a huge weight seems to drop off his heavy shoulders when he mutters, "Yes, please."

He's probably expected some kind of Santa's lap type deal, so he looks on with suspicion as Dick comes over and promptly straddles him, so he can wrap his arms around his neck and keep facing him.

"As a heads-up, this is the last time I'll _ask_ if I can get in your lap. In the future I'll simply do it."

"In the future."

"Yes." Dick lets his forehead sink against his. "Listen up, partner. You think _you're_ bad? Check this out. I forget birthdays. I don't keep appointments. I get into huge, dramatic shouting matches with people I love and I don't even know _how_ they happen. I abandoned my prom date because the Bat-signal was on. I make out with villainesses at the _drop_ of a hat, and then I'm completely _blindsided_ when the whole thing blows up in my face …"

"That …" Bruce lets out another deep, rumbling breath when Dick's fingers slide beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. His chest feels firm, warm, and there's something going on in there, he can tell. "-happens to the best of us - "

"Whatever. Emotionally, I'm hypersensitive and completely oblivious at the same time. At one point, I wanted both Kori and Babs to be my girlfriends and I could _not_ figure out why either would have a problem with that. I once dated Wally and I didn't realize it was happening until like, two weeks in – "

"You _what_?" Bruce snarls, and Dick gasps when his grip around his waist tightens. "He _had_ you?"

Archaic.

And kinda hot.

"Yeah," Dick breathes, and Bruce groans when his thighs are clenching around him almost involuntarily. "And d'you wanna know what _our_ first date was? I asked him to help me move, and then we ate cornflakes out of plastic frisbees because my stuff was all packed up. To give you an idea what kinds of dates I'm used to – "

"But that sounds fun." There's a furious, desperate edge to Bruce's voice while he tries to catch Dick's moving lips with his teeth, "He's fun. I'm sure you had _fun_."

"Missing the point again." Between words, Dick is lapping at his mouth. Bruce bucks up against him when he takes his face in his hands, so he can look right at him. "The point is. No matter how bad you think you are, pal, I can match you," he whispers. "And you won't _believe_ how bad we can be together."

Bruce says nothing for a while, he simply stares, but then, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is Dick's name, and it sounds raspy and shuddery and broken and possessive, and so natural as if it melts from his lips.

And above them, the sky roars and then explodes because the storm is there.

***

"We can wait," Bruce tells him in the dark. "Until it lets up. I can call us a car. Take you … take you home."

Dick shakes his head. "I can't wait," he whispers, and his full-on erection is probably a strong indicator.

They're in the back of the plane, on the couches, where it all started. The only thing Bruce is still wearing are the bandages around his shoulder; Dick is completely naked. Their precious suits are … everywhere. But right now, they're not even touching. They're simply looking at each other, their bare skin shining pale in the darkness, and it's captivating. Every cut, every scar, every soft swell of muscle and flesh they'd never thought they'd see. They're looking at each other, and there's no shame or embarrassment in it. It's a strange, solemn, almost ceremonial atmosphere. Like they're renewing an oath they've given each other long ago, in a very very different time. 

Dick can see how hard he is, because now he's allowed himself to be. And he's glad he's not a virgin, because that thing commands respect.

The rain is furiously whipping against the closed blinders. The whole plane is rattling. It's probably not the safest place to be right now, but it feels like it is.

It's Dick who grows impatient first, of course he is.

He quivers against him, lets his lips brush against his, because he knows now that he can count on him claiming them when he's ready.

"I want you everywhere," he shakily confesses, "Everywhere."

Bruce makes a tortured, strangled noise – it's almost a whimper – grabs him by the neck, and crushes their mouths together. It's the third time they kiss, and yet he seems surprised by it, and kinda in awe of it, every time. And their bare skin collides, and then there's no stopping anymore.

Every sensitive nerve in his body gets lit on fire as Bruce kisses his way down his throat to his chest, and he thinks of all the tricks he could show him, but it's not the time for that now, now is the time to explore. And he lets him, lets him take his mouth to his belly, his hips, his lightly bruised knees, the insides of his thighs, and now he _kneeling_ in front of him. There's something so cautious and reverent in the attention that Bruce gives his body, it almost shames him; it's … humbling.

He arrives between his thighs, and buries his face in it like he's made the world's greatest discovery, and Dick shudders, digs his fingers into his thick black hair and moans.

He gently pulls him back up; he's not gonna have much staying power like this, and he's not gonna blow his load right into this man's face until he's made sure that kind of thing is okay.

Bruce seems only _a little_ at sea, really, when he seems momentarily unsure if it's all right to kiss him now, and Dick solves that by sucking on his mouth until his tongue is almost all the way down his throat.

"Now let me," he pants when they part, and there's no end to that sentence, that's all he really wants to say: _let me_.

Bruce allows him on top, where he nuzzles his head in the crook of his neck. He's not as deliberate and careful as Bruce is; he's bolder, greedier. The soft, dark hair on Bruce's chest feels lovely under his fingers, and he circles his thumbs over his nipples until he hears him groan and feels his arousal twitch against his hip. He's wanted to lick him all over right from the start, and so he does that for a while, he licks him, he sucks on him, marks him with his teeth. His face is flushed and his body is in complete, sweet agony when he eventually parts his legs, and slings his arms around the taller man's neck.

"I'm ready for you," he rasps, bringing his knees almost up to Bruce's shoulders, "Please, I'm … I'm so ready for you …"

_Have been for god knows how long._

Bruce tenses up, then he nods. Then, he leans over to the side table, opens a drawer, and produces some condoms.

"They're lubricated," he points out helpfully, like he wants some confirmation that Dick is pleased with his purchase. He looks very serious and focused again, but Dick can tell how excited he is, because he's sitting on him. 

He smiles down at him. Their work requires regular check-ups, so it's safe to assume that they're both healthy, but it seems more like a gesture of thoughtfulness than distrust.

"Give me that."

Bruce does. He's holding still, but then he gasps and his entire body rocks when Dick does that thing where he puts it on with his mouth. He hasn't done that in ages, and it's always kinda cheesy, but he wants to do it for him, he wants to give him at least a _hint_ of how deep he can take him, once they get to that.

"Don't worry about me, big guy," he teases him when he comes up again and positions himself. "Don't hold back. I've done it before – " 

It's a well-placed provocation, and he yelps when the first, furious thrust nearly knocks him off the couch. 

But Bruce doesn't do it like that, not really. When he actually enters him, he does it slow; carefully, agonizingly slow, so much so that Dick starts to squirm and whimper in his lap, grabbing his shoulders in an attempt to push himself down harder. But Bruce doesn't let him, he holds him steady, makes them both experience every single, shuddering inch.

"If you don't mind," he whispers, once he's all the way inside, "I want to stay like this, for a while. I want to … remember this."

Dick lets out a soft whine. But he nods.

It makes him almost lose his mind, and at the same time, he completely gets it.

He lets Bruce hold him close, feels his warmth, and listens to his deep, measured breathing that only hitches whenever Dick can't quite keep his hips still. Bruce's fingers are the only thing that's moving, up and down the curve of younger man's arched back. His gaze is ghosting across Dick's face, like he's trying to burn this image into his mind forever, and Dick returns it with half-lidded eyes. There's no sound except for the rain and Dick's flat, strained little breaths.

They hold out for barely a minute, but it feels so, so much longer. 

Bruce starts to move his hips moments before Dick would've started begging him. And he responds with fervor and gratitude. He grinds against him, and it fills him with pride when Bruce convulses underneath him with a sharp hiss, biting back hard.

It's slow at first, then it's tumultous, and then they're not on the couch anymore, they're on the floor. Sometimes one is on top, then the other, and it doesn't matter, they don't care, and they can't stop. Bruce has held out for so long, and he holds out even more, making Dick climax twice before he lets him make him come, trashing wildly on top of him.

And they become one. One steamy, sweaty pile on the ground. And it doesn't feel as much as an end than a beginning of something.

Dick looks down, and finds out that Bruce's orgasmic afterglow face is, indeed, as sweet and goofy as everyone else's.

"…what are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," he chuckles as he drops down and rolls on his back. "In case you can't tell, I'm _really_ having fun tonight."

Bruce says nothing, takes his hand and just lies there with him.

"Oooh, I really like those lamps!"

"Good. I've picked them for you."

In the distance, the cockpit radio is crackling.

 _"Good ev'nin' Gotham!"_ It blares. _"Seems like we've got nothing to fear from this storm, but it looks as if the rain won't let up until morning, so grab a good book, or even better, grab a loved one, and squeeze 'em and hold 'em 'til the sun comes up!"_


End file.
